Plum Pudding Bride Page 4

  “Before dawn Christmas day.”

  Less than forty! He brought his heel back against the crate. The wood splintered with a satisfying crack. “Who even runs a train on Christmas day?”

  Patience’s voice fell to a whisper. “Don’t tell. But Mrs. Clinton said a shipment of silver is being collected from the mine Christmas Eve. Mr. Clinton doesn’t want it sitting at the station all Christmas day while the guards are off-duty.”

  The sleigh bells on the shop’s door tinkled.

  Peter’s gaze moved to the entrance.

  A heavy boot smashed against the welcome mat. The doorway framed a mountain of a man. A worn red-and-white checked shirt hung from his broad shoulders. His tanned-hide coat fell open at the sides, revealing a shiny set of six-shooters.

  Patience’s hands rose to her mouth. “That’s him.”

  “Who?” Peter jumped up to grab the broom that fell from her hands.

  5

  “Hollo, hollo. I’m looking for Patience Callahan.”

  “That’s me.” Her voice came out in a squeak. Patience walked forward to meet Mr. Dehaven on wobbly legs.

  He looked like his picture, only more so. He smelled faintly of beer. The ragged wisps of something between a full beard and a respectably clean-shaven man protruded from his lips. Mr. Arnie Dehaven loomed even bigger than the six foot three inches that he’d told her in his letters. His hands were as large as meat cleavers. And there was dirt under his nails. His shoulders filled out the greasy piece of flannel that served as his shirt and his arm muscles swelled out the wool.

  “My beautiful bride.” He picked her up around the waist and lifted her high.

  That was not fine and dandy. Her boots dangled, her petticoats a full foot off the floor.

  He touched his lips to hers, and his whiskers poked her cheeks. Her entire shirt front would be soiled with his grime.

  “Put me down.” Patience pressed her hands against his chest, pushing him.

  Mr. Dehaven let her down, seemingly reluctantly.

  Her dress picked up more dirt as she slid down his chest to the floor.

  “Why, is that your fiancé, Patience?” Mrs. Clinton’s outdated hoop skirts bumbled after her as she ran forward.

  Please don’t let her smell the beer. Please. Patience prayed harder than she had in some weeks.

  “The name’s Arnie Dehaven”—Arnie wrapped his arm around her back, trapping her—“and I’m very pleased to call this lovely lady my bride-to-be.” Arnie extended his hand towards Mrs. Clinton.

  She sniffed loud enough to be heard throughout the store. “I’m Mrs. Clinton, the wife of the silver-mine proprietor, and it isn’t proper for a man to extend his hand first.” She stuck her gloved fist firmly into her fur muff.

  “Is that your beau?” Kitty’s high-pitched shriek came from the back aisle.

  What was she doing there? Probably come to inappropriately moon over Peter in the back storage room again. They’d been locked in there for a full half-hour yesterday, and she’d heard Kitty tittering the entire time.

  “Good day, Mr. Dim…I mean, Dehaven.” With a little bounce that set her rose-embroidered white muslin skirt flapping, Kitty extended her hand.

  Arnie shook it, while eying her all too admiringly. Sure, Kitty’s red velvet bolero jacket set off the stunning creamy skin of her throat, but Peter was pledged to marry her. Arnie, she meant, Arnie was pledged to her.

  “That’s my little sister, Kitty.” Patience elbowed Arnie in the ribs. He was still squeezing her too close. She could hear his heart beat. Or more to the point, smell his sweat-stained flannel.

  “Mr. Dehaven, did you really kill a mountain lion with your bare hands?” One of Peter’s ragtag little brothers ran through the open store door. He was followed by several other small boys with sticks.

  News spread much too fast in this town.

  “So you’re Arnie Dehaven?” Peter’s voice had an edge to it. He held her broom in one hand. Ink from the ledger book stained the inside of his palm. He stood, not moving even one welcoming pace forward.

  With a twirl of her rose-embroidered skirt, Kitty rushed back to him and stuck her arm through his. She giggled in the way that only Kitty could. “Isn’t it wonderful? To see my sister getting married after all these years. Do you think we’ll be next to walk down the church aisle, Peter?” She fluttered her long black eyelashes at him.

  Mrs. Clinton harrumphed. “Should be first as far as I’m concerned. Who is this Dehaven anyway? Some stranger you dragged off the streets.” She glared pointedly at Patience and then gave an approving little nod to Kitty.

  Swallowing hard, Patience eyed a speck of dust on the floor by her toe. It wasn’t as if she cared about Mrs. Clinton’s approval, but still…

  Rotating, Patience turned her attention to the man whose bulldog grip dug into her ribs. “Why are you even here, Mr. Dehaven? I have my train ticket for Montana for the day after tomorrow.”

  Everything would be perfect once they were in Montana in Arnie’s home. If only he hadn’t come. Once they were safely away from this dream-crushing Gilman crowd, their life would become the romantic fairy tale she’d envisioned.

  “Couldn’t wait another minute to meet my blushing bride.” Mr. Dehaven leaned down to give her a resounding kiss. His fat lips tasted of stale beer.

  Patience extricated herself from the lips, but unfortunately not from his overly possessive grip. Why again had she wanted to marry a big man? “You told me your reverend’s wife had the entire ceremony planned. You’ll never get a ticket back in time now. The passenger car’s been booked for weeks.”

  “We’ll just have the wedding here instead. I’m sure silver-mine-proprietor-wife Mrs. Clinton can put something together at the church.” Arnie pulled Patience in front of him, both arms across her chest, even as she tried to twist around. He smiled at Mrs. Clinton. He was missing one of his back teeth. “How about tomorrow at noon?”

  “Tomorrow!” Patience actually felt her eyelids stretch wide with shock.

  Mrs. Clinton tilted her gray head. “I could bake some of my famous spice cake. It won a blue ribbon at the fair four years running.”

  “Tomorrow evening then. Give you a few extra hours before you become Mrs. Arnie Dehaven, the third.” A grin plastered Arnie’s big jaw.

  She felt her own face curving the opposite way. “That’s Christmas Eve.”

  “And what better way to celebrate than by making you my wife?” Arnie’s fingers pressed against her ribcage, barely allowing breath. He glanced out at the overcast afternoon sky. “There’s time to show me the church ’fore night.”

  “I’m scheduled to work at the store. I’m sure Peter couldn’t possibly spare me.” With a tug, Patience finally freed herself from his bulky arm and leapt for the broom in Peter’s hands.

  “Nonsense.” Kitty moved between her and the broom. “I’ll just step in and do your work.”

  Patience glared at her.

  But Arnie had already looped his arm through hers and was dragging her forward.

  “Have a delightful time.” Kitty flipped out a handkerchief in a farewell wave. “And afterwards, come back to our house for dinner. I’ll invite a few friends too. I’m sure the whole town is dying to meet your mysterious Montana rancher. Mrs. Clinton, will you—”

  “No.” Twisting back as Arnie propelled her forward, Patience motioned violently in the negative at Kitty. “I’m sure the boardinghouse Mr. Dehaven’s staying at will offer him dinner.”

  “Of course I’ll come, Kitty deary.” Mrs. Clinton dropped three bolts of velvet and a spool of ribbon on the store counter. “And I’ll bring my special meatloaf recipe. Maybe some spiced apple pies as well.” She caught up a canister of cloves.

  Behind the shield of Mr. Dehaven’s arm, Patience rolled her eyes ceiling-ward. Since when was Kitty Mrs. Clinton’s “deary”? Kitty had been sneaking out of church meeting to meet Bart Hensley behind the saloon for nigh on a year now. She, Patience Callahan, was th
e respectable one. Even joined Mrs. Clinton’s temperance league and suffered through hours-long, dreadfully dull meetings every other Thursday evening in order to vote for the suffrage amendment two years ago.

  “Susannah, you’ll bring your family too, right?” With a swish of her rose-embroidered skirts, Kitty accosted another perusing matron.

  Was Kitty inviting every woman in sight?

  “And you’ll come too, Peter?” Kitty fixed a star-glazed gaze on him.

  Peter’s fists curled over the broom.

  “Oh yes, we’ll absolutely expect you there. You being Kitty’s beau and all, almost family.” Patience contorted her lips into a happy expression. See if Kitty would be as pleased to invite all the town gossips, if her love life was the topic of debate.

  “Yes, please,” Kitty simpered through manicured nails.

  “I’ll be there.” Peter’s voice was grim as he met Patience’s gaze.

  And with that, Arnie swept her out the door.

  6

  A chill wind blew through the pebbled streets as Patience crossed through a back alley. Around her snow had begun to fall, dusting the streets and catching on the bare twigs of rosebushes planted in picketed front yards. Her one hand rested on the frayed elbow of Arnie’s coat.

  “I haven’t shown you the new horse post Mr. Clinton installed outside the blacksmith’s shop yet, have I?” Patience glanced at the last rays of sunshine falling below the red rock cliff face. If she delayed long enough, perhaps Mrs. Clinton and all the other busybodies would eat their meal and leave.

  “Three times, sweetheart.” Arnie Dehaven took advantage of the alley to press her into the brick shop building. His hand slid underneath her wool coat.

  “That’s scarcely appropriate. We’re not married.” Patience shoved the big topmost button of her coat back into its proper hole.

  “Won’t be long. One day don’t make no difference nohow.” The leather of Arnie’s massive glove pushed back her knit cap as he touched her hair.

  She ducked from under his arm, sending her cap sailing. “Yes, it does.” Was this what her life was to be like? To be pawed by a mountain of a rancher in the darkness of a Montana soddy? She stooped to retrieve her now-sodden cap.

  “Let’s eat then. Got to fill one of a man’s carnal needs. Your ma’s cooking, right?”

  “We could dine at the boardinghouse, just the two of us.”

  He laughed, a pleasant enough sound. “Naw. Got to see where my woman learned to cook.”

  Who said “my woman”? That was dark-ages dialect, not the speech of liberated nineteenth-century women. Of course, it sounded romantic from the lips of Ivanhoe or d’Artagnan. But from Arnie Dehaven? Not very.

  Storefronts and snow-capped roofs faded as they walked around the tiny crest that hid her house from the rest of town. Remains of last week’s snow piled under a north-facing boulder’s jutting presence. More snow fell on top of the now-dark dirt road.

  Patience shivered and drew her mittens farther inside the red wool of her coat sleeves.

  “The Clintons’ silver mine’s up thataway, eh?” Arnie stuck a big, gloved finger towards the valley beyond, but made no other attempt at conversation.

  She nodded and hurried towards the warmth a few hundred yards beyond. Before she could grab the handle of the front door, the wooden panel flew open from within.

  “Ma and Pa have been waiting and waiting for you.” Now changed into yet another of her many jackets, Kitty looked resplendent in a green-trimmed bolero with a matching holly-leaf pin in her hair. Had Peter given her that too?

  “You’ve got a father?” Arnie shoved past Patience on the snowy door stoop and stomped his boots on the floor. Mud splattered over the pine floorboards she’d scrubbed earlier.

  “Most people since Adam have.” Squeezing around his bulky frame, she picked up the coat he’d let fall. She hung it neatly on the carved coat hanger Peter had helped Pa whittle this summer. The coat smelled even more pungent now that they were inside.

  In the entrance, Mr. and Mrs. Clinton stood between coat pegs along with Kitty and an uncharacteristically dour-looking Peter.

  “Usually only the fatherless become mail-order brides. Most pas won’t allow it.” Arnie rubbed his chapped hands together. Ice had frozen to the wisps of his scraggly facial hair. No wonder his attempted kisses had scraped her this afternoon.

  “I would certainly never allow a daughter of mine to sell herself to a greasy stranger for the price of a train ticket.” Peter crossed one arm over the other, making his shoulders look broader.

  “You would make such a good father.” With a little sigh, Kitty grabbed the pressed black linen of Peter’s sleeve and laid her pink cheeks against it.

  “My two favorite lovebirds.” Mrs. Clinton spread her sagging arms around both of them and popped her gray head between theirs.

  But Patience kept her gaze fixed on Peter.

  “My pa happens to be of the enlightened type who believes that grown women are fully capable of making their own decisions without a man’s interference.” She held her head high, giving an aristocratic tilt to her chin. At least she hoped so.

  “Got to knock those fool ideas out of my woman’s head soon as possible.” Arnie guffawed and put an arm around her.

  Peter’s hands clenched into fists.

  Mrs. Clinton’s hand came up to her mouth.

  Even Mr. Clinton, a tiny shadow of a man, looked disturbed.

  Fortunately, Ma and Pa were already at the table with the children.

  With another head-cracking giggle, Kitty patted Arnie’s flannel-covered elbow. “What a darling addition to our family.”

  Patience glared at her. Now that she thought of it, Kitty had been excessively happy these past twelve days. Was she so thrilled to be losing a sister?

  Pushing out of Mrs. Clinton’s embrace, Peter opened his mouth to speak.

  Kitty darted past him. “Come on, everyone. Soup’s hot.” Kitty grabbed Arnie and steered him towards the dining room.

  Rather than objecting, Arnie’s gaze lingered appreciatively on Kitty’s blonde waves. She had always been dubbed the beauty of the family.

  “You’re not really marrying that man,” Peter said.

  A sleeve brushed hers. Patience’s gaze turned to Peter’s face, inches away. “Of course I’m marrying him. And I think it’s controlling of you not to allow your someday-daughter to choose her own husband.” How was she going to marry Arnie Dehaven? He was awful.

  “Only if she makes a half-wit decision.” Peter’s mouth pressed together in a line.

  His jaw looked quite square by the light of oil lamp and hearth fire. And he smelled of cedar packing shavings. But he was so mild-mannered. He’d never last a day in the rough-and-tumble of Ivanhoe’s tournaments or d’Artagnan’s duels. Though he had wrestled that highway robber’s gun out of his hand…

  Peter’s green eyes focused on her. His gaze touched her cheeks, her hair, her brow, before fixing on her eyes.

  Heat rose to her cheeks. She fought the urge to bring her hands up to cover them as the blush deepened. Why was she blushing over her sister’s beau?

  “Kitty seems pleased that I brought her to your attention.” Why had she given that nonsensical matchmaking advice to Peter anyway? He deserved to pick his own bride. Obviously, Kitty was making much more of Peter’s brief wooing than was accurate. She wagered the entire thing would be over by New Year’s.

  Eyes emotionless, Peter brought his chin down in a sharp nod. His black hair was cropped close, outlining the hard lines of his forehead.

  “And you? My little sister scared you off yet?” Surely she had. Peter didn’t want a flighty beauty like Kitty. She was simply too…young.

  “Not by a long shot.” Peter’s voice was gruff, his arms still crossed.

  “But she’s talking of babies and happily ever after. Surely you don’t see her that way.”

  His shoulders rose in the brusquest of shrugs.

  “But you’
ve only started courting her twelve days ago.”

  “You’re getting married a day after meeting a man. Twelve days must seem an eternity to you.” His firm cheekbones lent a determined look to his face.

  She’d never noticed how well-proportioned his visage was. “That’s different.” She shifted from her left boot to her right. The flat heel slapped the floor. She’d never gotten accustomed to the high-heeled styles Kitty wore.

  “How?”

  “Hey, Patty-o. You coming?” Arnie’s loud voice yodeled out from the room beyond.

  “Yes.” Lifting up the wet hem of her long skirts, Patience turned towards the dining room.

  Lamplight illuminated a heavy-laden dining table. The chairs were squeezed together like sardines. The sheer number of bodies pressed into this small space heated the room to a comfortable temperature despite the howling wind outside.

  Ma and Pa sat nearest the kitchen with the littlest Callahans packed on benches by their side. Mrs. Clinton’s ample form squeezed between the outside wall and table, with some of her flopping over on the tabletop. Seated next to her, Arnie fit no better. His massive shoulders pressed back against the wallpaper, his knees scraping against the bottom of the table. He kicked out the chair next to him.

  After scrambling over a few young’uns and an end table, Patience slid into the seat. She kept her gaze on her lap as she spread out a cloth napkin. But she could still feel everyone’s gaze on her.

  “I brought my special pickle relish recipe.” Susannah Johnson reached over two noisy tots to set a canned jar on the tablecloth.

  “Potato chowder?” Kitty squeezed around chairs with an oversized kettle and ladle, scooping smoking liquid into bowls.

  “Here’s the rolls. I hope you had a good afternoon, Patience?” Ma’s voice was quiet as she passed an overflowing basket of bread.

  “Of course, delightful.” The toasty smell of fresh-baked bread rose to Patience’s nostrils. But she wasn’t hungry. Her elbow knocked Arnie’s as she passed the basket on.

  At the end of the table, Peter sank onto a bench seat by Kitty. Her sister’s eyes sparkled as she scooped soup into his pewter bowl. Their hands met over the spoon for the pickle relish. She laughed.